Prescribed Tom M Riddle Laws: Mudblood Act
by NickeltheRed
Summary: Just what if the Dark Side had won, and the Magical Community slipped into a Muggle Holocaust? In Hermione's POV, few years after Voldmort conquered. Dramione.  Now revised .
1. The Protocols Affirmation

**I own nothing. Story belongs to J.K. Rowling.**

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><p><em><span>The Mudblood Protocols Affirmation <span>_

I. Every Muggleborn and Half-blood shall be considered a Mudblood.

II. Every Mudblood shall not speak to a Superior unless the Mudblood is addressed first or is placed under interrogation. A Mudblood shall also memorize The Mudblood Protocols Affirmation whenever requested to recite it.

III. Every Mudblood that is not enlisted into the Mudblood Coop or does not have Purchase Records must be contained and reported to the Coop Caretakers immediately for necessary pickup. Stray Mudbloods will be not tolerated. If caught other otherwise the Mudblood shall be put on trial to determine the appropriate punishment.

IV. Every Mudblood under age shall not be allowed to attend Hogwarts, Beauxbaton, or Durmstrang. Mudbloods as a whole shall not handle a wand or any magical materials unless the Mudblood is under strict supervision by the Master or Lady—or any other suitable Superior present at the time—for the protection of the Master or Lady's person or residence.

V. Every Mudblood must obey all Superiors. In the event the Mudblood has been purchased the Mudblood shall mind the orders of the Master or Lady before other Superiors' requests unless otherwise permitted.


	2. Bought

I pushed through the other captives to reach the perimeter of the paddy wagon. The wool gown I was forced to wear was nearly causing my skin beneath it to rash by now. With my body now pressed up against the bars, I scanned the vast crowd surrounding the wooden platform outside. I watched each person keenly, searched hard, though I had no idea what I was even searching for. Perhaps, it was for one, for any small sign of hope.

Suddenly, a commotion erupted. Cheering, roaring, and near-screams sprang about into the autum air. The crate door was unlocked and was opened with severe force. A wizard clad in all black climbed in afterwards. And with a fairly hazy mind, I was only half-aware when he told me to come to him. Cold metal shackles were clamped around my ankles. I then was hauled out, down the ramp along with the two other wizards and the four witches linked to my chains. Through the wild mob of Purebloods, we were herded like cattle towards the stage.

I dared not to view the too-familiar posters plastered upon the walls surrounding the Square any longer, for my heart ached horridly each time my eyes read the words: '_Weasleys, Teachers, and other Blood Traitors Placed in Azkaban!' _or _'Harry Potter in Hiding, Find Him, and Rise Against Him!' _or _'Loyal Pureblood Families Take Giant Steps Ahead While Others are Pushed Far Back.'_ and_ 'Hogwarts, a School Finally for Chosen Scholars Only!' _

Once the tall podium was positioned in center stage, we were ordered to line up beside it. I was the first in line. I cringed later when the older wizard to my left, Alonso—if I remembered correctly—had been hit in his chest with a rotten tomato, and the second had flown pass my ear, slightly ruffling my hair. Yet, I was too deep in distress during the past few years to display any emotional reaction whatsoever.

The wizard in black robes who had collected us stood at the podium, unrolling the documents. "Fellow Purebloods," he boomed in enthusiasm, his rough voice now controlled and civilized, "these are the auction items the Snatcher Society are willing to present to you today."

More clapping from the audience before the platform ensued, and they prepared themselves for the bid, most of them digging out their galleons and sickles out from their sagging pockets.

Black Robes placed spectacles on the bridge of his nose and began reading down the article aloud. Three of the witches I had never heard of before, but then again they were all a year or two beneath me. They each sold easily at low prices for kitchen maids, or servants to care for any magical livestock. The last Muggleborn witch I had actually met once in Charms class. She was sold at a better price to a well-dressed, elderly witch who claimed she was in dire need of a young caretaker in her lonesome mansion. (Oh, poor old thing.) The second wizard and Alonso were purchased as a set by a Ministry director.

I was next, and I was also last.

"And now my fine Ladies and Gentleman, the last, but certainly the most prized and expensive Mudblood we have on our market, is Hermione Jean Granger, at age 21! She's not only the best friend of Harry Potter himself, but she was known for her smarts! What a collector's item she shall be to your Mudbloods at home, eh?"

The crowd roared with laughter along with Black Robes, and I unfortunately felt the blood leave my face from sickening self-consciousness. My determined scowl melted away at the mentioning of my set price.

"We will start this auction at 500 Galleons!"

I was really that expensive? My head reeled to figure the math. That was equivalent to 2,500 British Pound. I was deeply surprised, and if I were not placed in such a drastic situation, I would have been _almost_ flattered.

"510!" a witch in emerald tried.

"530!" a wizard challenged, in addition.

"545!" the witch shouted.

"600!" another witch decided.

"900!" and another.

My, what a jump that had been.

The numbers were persistent, and continued to climb, and each bidder became more and more fascinated with the other's offer. I did not want to believe what my ears were hearing. It was so coldblooded. I was _this_ intriguing, and was worth so much all _because_ I had close relations with Harry.

But then a wizard's voice suddenly called out from the sidelines, and the handsome number that he stated had caused the rest to go silent with intense curiosity. "20,000 Galleons!"

I gasped.

"Final offer?" Black Robes inquired moments later.

Just my luck. I was worth near a million British Pound—I was too far too viable now to simply disregard, to place aside on the market. There went any slight change of escaping the Mudblood Coop.

"Well then, going once…going twice. And this Mudblood is sold to the selected costumer, Draco Malfoy!"

…And my luck was getting better by the second.


	3. Manor Life

The snow that coated the outer stone walls, and layered on the slopes of the Manor's tower peeks, shimmered under the afternoon sun as if thousands of diamonds had been ground down into mere dust. The winter's wind was the traditional nippy gust that tortured any exposed flesh, not hidden by a sort of wrap or collar.

But that detail didn't necessarily affect me, for I was still protected by the little body-warming charm set upon the interior of the grand home.

It had been three months since Malfoy had rightfully "bought" me at the Square.

And now my life at Malfoy Manor had become utterly, absolutely, and completely, and wholly—

Boring.

By this point in time, I would have preferred to carry on with my life according to my mental depiction of what staying at Malfoy Manor would've been like really. Filled with fatal tasks, Malfoy's brutal smiles, and piercing taunts, finding pure enjoyment in my suffering, much like during our academic years. But I had attained none of those things listed above. It'd be better than wasting away from the inside out.

I was not a Vassal living at the Manor, nor was I a Bailiff or Reeve. I wasn't even a servant. The house elves were the Manor's keepers. I was a Mudblood, placed below all else. I was supposed play the role of a thorough and painfully-common slave, a slug.

Though tracing back to the subject of my...Master. He in reality seemed to avoid me at all costs.

"Muggle lady?" an elf's voice suddenly addressed, after creakeing open to the narrow door to my assigned servant bunkroom. Apparently he was unaware that I'd been already conscious. "It's time to wake."

Turing over, I sighed. Honestly if Malfoy insisted on giving me little to do frequently, then why was I forced to draw from my bed so early in the morning?

"What is it, Wallowbee?"

"Master requests the Library to be reorganized. By genre, not by title."

I moaned. "That's all?"

Wallowbee's ears drooped, just like a deprived, scolded pup. He appeared puzzled by my blunt reaction. "Yes, Muggle lady."

"Very well."

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><p><strong>I however, am having a little writer's block on this story from this point on. (Since, it wasn't meant to be a chapter story initially.) I'm still brainstorming too. Draco may come back in the following chapters. Any thoughts or suggestion would be entirely welcomed!<strong>


	4. A Grey Chill

It wasn't as if I was I was unimpressed by the Malfoy Library. As Much as I hated to admit it to myself, I could never resent any library. The Weasley twins enjoyed to tease me whenever they caught me entering or exiting the school's library. _"Aw look, the cute little creature has finally departed from its natural habitat. Bold move!" _

Furthermore, I was even less surprised to learn most their collection was not only ancient and respectable, but a healthy portion of it could very well be labeled "Restricted Section" material as well. In truth, I highly doubted Hogwarts would ever allow its archives to display books with titles like _Mighty Magick by Midnight,_ _Summon the Spiteful Sprites_, or_ Determine the Damnation Laws of Demonology_, for students in the first place.

What was even worse, the growing number of unsettling texts could have been used or borrowed by Lord Voldemort given his Mode of Operation in mind.

But after discarding that specific thought, followed an alternative one. What if Voldemort had _indeed_ taken advantage of the Malfoys for his research? Perhaps, for Horcruxes research in particular? Voldemort surely didn't need Lucius now, since the old outside rumors had stated Lucius was thrown into Azkaban for another round of punishment for letting them escape Malfoy Manor years ago.

"Horcruxes..." I mused softly to myself.

What if_ I_ could find _that_ material and learn _what_ the enemy had known as well? What if I could even out the score someway, in any small amount? I suddenly reminded myself that true Gryffindors would never give in no matter how dire situations were. And I knew Harry would share that opinion too, wherever he really was these days.

So—before I knew it—my feet moved beneath me on a complete will of their own! Up and down the aisles I went, climbing one staircase to reach one balcony, and then another, like a mad woman out on a murder mission. Clearly the sheer adrenaline had glossed my better judgment of things, considering after the first few minutes, I began to seize every single leathery spine that was basically in range. The sense of time drifted right over me.

And it wasn't until a body blocked my path while I shuffled sideways, brushing my fingertips across the current rows of books. It was a familiar tall and lean body, dressed in refined black and silver robes. Quite reluctantly I forced my head to rotate his way. And as soon as I met those penetrating, bright grey eyes of his from such a close range, a quaking chill shot through my system.

He tipped his head. "Looking for something in particular?"

As he questioned this arching a pale brow, I stole one moment or two to observe my surroundings. The sight almost made me physically ill. I apparently had gone into such an ambitious frenzy that I had entirely missed the part when I started to toss books all around, forgetting (or not bothering) to replace them. Now a great collection of them laid here and there, on the floor, on the study corner tables, and half-open over the railings...what a mess...what a problem!

_Oh Glorious Gryffindor, how could I ever explain this?_

I bit my lip, loathing myself more than I thought I ever could. The best, well safest, option which presented itself was to merely improvise.

"I was just, uh, reorganizing the books. Just as my master had ordered me to."


End file.
